


nearly the heavens

by liesmyth



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 01: The Way of Kings, Gen, Surgeon Kaladin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: “Kaladin the Lifegiver, they call him," Sadeas said. “Best surgeon in all of Alethkar, and he comes from my Princedom.”AU: Kaladin never joins the army, but he ends up on the Plains anyway.
Relationships: Kaladin & Dalinar Kholin, Kaladin/Laral Wistiow
Comments: 25
Kudos: 132
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	nearly the heavens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voidaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidaer/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Ближе к небесам](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956663) by [WTF Sanderson Cosmere 2021 (WTF_Cosmere)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Cosmere/pseuds/WTF%20Sanderson%20Cosmere%202021)



> This is an AU where Brightlord Wistiow dies later than he does in canon, after Kaladin was engaged to Laral and went to study in Kharbranth. The title is inspired by a quote by Cicero: “In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in giving health to men.”

Kaladin heard the soldier before he saw him. His sandals slapped against the rough terrain of the Plains as he arrived at a sprint, and his breath was winded.

“Citizen, citizen! You have a summon.”

Kaladin didn’t look up, intent on setting the bone of a lighteyed child who’d slipped and broken her arms in three places. It was the kind of complicated fracture that took concentration to set and would be a mess to see to if it healed wrong; the child’s tenner family might be lighteyed, but they still struggled to pay for the services of a Kharbranth-trained surgeon. They deserved his full attention.

“Now, we’re almost done,” he told the child. “I’m just going to set the last part, all right? You’re being very brave.”

“Citizen! Highprince Sadeas has summoned you at once!”

“I can’t stop now, or the bone will heal wrong,” Kaladin hissed, furiously. “Unless the Highprince is bleeding to death right in front of my surgery, two minutes won’t change anything. Go look for my wife. She’s in the back fetching more willow bark. She will need to come with us.”

The soldier was lighteyed – a lieutenant, by the look of his uniform – but he gave Kaladin what looked like the beginning of a military salute before he thought better of it and scurried towards the back of the surgery.

“You just ordered around one of the Highprince’s officers.”

It was the child’s mother; Kaladin only spared her a look, gesturing for her to come forward and help him hold her daughter still.

“Have I?” he said, and then he went back to doing his job.

It wasn’t over in two minutes, but it was over in five. He gave the child one of the sweet treats that Laral bought just for his youngest patients and told her she was the bravest young woman in all of the warcamps. “The worst is over. I’m just going to bandage it properly now, all right?”

The child nodded, blinking away tears. Kaladin smiled encouragingly at her. “You are very brave, Salah. Now remember, willow bark and stay still for about an hour or two.”

In the back, he could hear Laral talking with the lieutenant in hushed tones. Kaladin bandaged the child’s arm tightly and set it with a splint, and instructed the child’s father that she had to drink an infusion of willow bark for the pain and come back in three days to be seen to. “Better if you come in the morning. Evenings are busy.”

“Are you done?” the lieutenant asked. “I’m sorry but really – the Highprince insisted, citizen, brightness. He said it’s of the uttermost importance.”

He kept pestering them as they packed up the surgery, explaining that they were needed out in the plateaus.

That stopped Kaladin in his tracks. “Was Sadeas injured in battle?” The Highprince carried a Shardplate, but even those had weak spots, and if the Highprince had been injured…

“There was no battle, citizen. The Highprince was out on a hunt this morning, with the King and Highprince Dalinar.”

A hunt. It figured. The Highprinces played at war while the kingdom paid for it, and as if that wasn’t enough they spend their days hunting and feasting and sipping wine. If Sadeas required a surgeon, how many of his men also lay injured?

“How was the Highprince wounded?” Laral asked. The lieutenant shook his head. “Not the Highprince, Brightness. King Elhokar. I’m to help you request horses from the Highprince’s stables, and you’re to ride out to the royal party at once.”

Kaladin had been out to the Plains before. Whenever he was out there it was rarely on a call: the men who paid for his services were the kind who hardly ever saw combat, and the foot soldiers who fought where the battles were bloodiest couldn’t usually afford him. Kaladin made sure to be on the field on battle days whenever he could and saw to the wounded free of charge, and every time he ended the day feeling defeated and embittered and disgusted with the state of the world.

This time was no exception. On the ride to the King’s pavilion he saw wounded soldiers, some with bloodied limbs or bandaged heads, being seen to by field surgeons who probably didn’t have half the training Kaladin did. He itched to go see to them, but he was told by the lieutenant that all the wounded had received medical attention already and there was nothing more he could do. Kaladin sulked unsteadily atop his horse – if there was one thing the last year had proven beyond any doubt was that Kaladin would never be a good horse rider. Laral sat calmly on her steed and pretended gracefully that she hadn’t seen him struggle, though her lips curved into a smile.

They reached the King’s pavilion, surrounded by men in Kholin blue who showed maybe an ounce of that famed Alethi military discipline that was so lacking in Sadeas’s camp. The lieutenant ran ahead fast as lighting, and as Kaladin and Laral walked inside he heard a loud voice boom all around them.

“There he is, Your Majesty, the surgeon I told you about.” Highprince Sadeas himself was saying. “Kaladin the Lifegiver, they call him. Best surgeon in all of Alethkar, and he comes from my Princedom.” He seemed to view Kaladin’s accomplishments as his property, just like the field around Hearthstone and Laral’s childhood home now belonged to Brightlord Roshone.

“Your Majesty, Highprince.” Laral bowed. She outranked Kaladin, as she always would, just because of the colour of her eyes, and if he sometimes resented the fact of her birth it certainly came in handy when she was the one speaking first in social situations and making introductions. Laral was infinitely more polite than Kaladin would ever be. “This is my husband, Kaladin the surgeon. What ails Your Majesty?”

The emergency, it turned out, was a sprained ankle. The King’s royal foot was propped on a silk pillow over an elegant table filled with candied delicacies, the ankle swollen to the size of an exotic pomegranate.

“Don’t you think it could be broken, surgeon?” the King asked anxiously. His nose was somewhat longer than it appeared in the official portraits, and he was less handsome, but his hair was just as overly made up. Unlike Highprince Sadeas this was Kaladin’s first time meeting the man, and he felt those violet eyes weighing him.

“Your Majesty.”

“Yes– _ow_!” The King winced. “Was what that for?”

“If it was broken, you would have screamed. It’s just a sprain, Your Majesty. We’ll have you on your feet in no time, ready for the next hunt.”

Laral gave him a look, the kind that warned he should tread more lightly. Kaladin shook his head right back; Highprince Sadeas had wandered off somewhere to inspect the wine brought to the King, and Elhokar himself didn’t seem like the type to recognise sarcasm if it tugged his impressively kept beard.

“Now, Your Majesty,” Kaladin began. “I’m going to bandage the foot – it may hurt a bit, but not much. You should keep your weight off it for the next few days, and I have an ointment you will need to apply every time you have the bandage redone.”

The King blinked owlishly at him. “Is there any reason why you won’t be the one doing my bandages?”

“Well, I assumed your personal surgeon–”

“Pff.” The King gestured airily. “I employ my uncle Dalinar’s surgeons. Do you see any of them around anywhere?”

Kaladin frowned. “Well, I assume Highprince Sadeas said he would send for me.”

“He did. He called you the best surgeon in Alethkar.” Those violet eyes were suddenly much sharper. “Is it true that you saved Brightlord Ronar from certain death?”

“Well. I suppose so.”

“And yet you look young.”

Kaladin shrugged. “I trained since childhood. I apprenticed as a boy and then in Kharbranth.”

“Hm. And your wife.”

Laral had gone to talk with the King’s steward after she’d given a look around here and deemed there was nothing she could help him with. She was ruthlessly efficient when there was work to be done, and Kaladin thought often that Hesina would be proud if she knew.

“What about her?” he asked the King as if he didn’t know.

“She’s lighteyed. What dahn?”

“Fifth.”

If the King had noticed how Kaladin addressed him without a title, he gave no sign. “And you are first nahn. Well, then.”

But he didn’t add anything else, and Kaladin went back to his work without learning what exactly was well about his marriage in the eyes of the King. 

He was done before the Highprince returned with servants and Elhokar’s wine, feeling like the entire day had been a colossal waste of his time. He didn’t need to come this far just to bandage a leg – he thought of all the work he could have done at the warcamps instead, or seeing to the Kholin men outside the King’s pavilion, and the sense of frustrating idleness only worsened when he learned that he was expected to attend the evening feast with the King and his court later tonight.

“Surely that is too much, Your Majesty.” Kaladin wasn’t above using lighteyes’ proper titles when he had to. “We aren’t attired for court, and I barely did a thing–”

“Take the compliment, surgeon,” Highprince Sadeas said. “The King was pleased with you. That makes you honour.”

There was a warning in those words. The last time Kaladin had seen the Highprince before today, a stern-faced lighteyed scribe dressed in Sadeas’s colours had told him off for interfering with the bridgemen. The time before that, an apothecary merchant in the warcamp had brought him before one of the Highprince’s justices on a claim of Kaladin undercutting his profits by selling his own antiseptic. His dealings with Sadeas haven’t been at all peaceful, and Kaladin knows that if it weren’t for Laral’s status shielding him from the worst of the recriminations he wouldn’t be here today, seeing to the King of Alethkar instead of the poorest of Sadeas’s slaves.

Gritting his teeth, he went to wash his hands. He had a dinner party to attend.

“You could stand to look happier,” Laral whispered to him before she went to mingle with the women. She was almost as ill at ease at these things as he was – she’d grown up in Hearthstone same as him, with no women of her station around for miles, and her bright green eyes didn’t mean she knew how to talk to brightladies. She was looking pretty and lively in the dress she’d borrowed from one of Dalinar Kholin’s scribes, and patted the top of his arm as she spoke.

“I just feel like… This is wasteful.” He shook his head. He wasn’t made to stand to the side at elegant lighteyes’ dinner parties, an interloper in the room. “We wasted the whole day.”

“We are getting to take a break and eat a meal cooked by the royal cooks, I think it’s great,” Laral said. “Maybe you should take the chance to relax for one evening, Kal. I know I am.” She patted his arm again as he left, kissed his cheek then laughed lightly when Kaladin scowled despite himself. He barely had time to miss her when he was accosted by a lighteyed warrior with keen eyes – Dalinar Kholin.

The Highprince wore his uniform with the same dangerous grace he’d worn his unadorned Shardplate earlier today. He stood out among the fashionable lord and ladies all around them and was receiving almost as many curious stares as Kaladin had.

“Surgeon,” Dalinar said, “Sadeas spoke highly of you, and my nephew the King was very satisfied with your services. I wanted to thank you.”

Kaladin was taken aback. For all that the King and Sadeas might be satisfied with his services, neither had _thanked_ him, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting it from the King’s uncle. The Blackthorn. When he’d been a child, playing at warriors in Hearthstone, he’d dreamed of fighting side by side with him.

Now he knew better. Darkeyes in the army didn’t get to rub shoulders with brightlords. They were sent to the frontlines, to the slaughter.

“The King’s injury was very minor,” Kaladin said. “Everyone could’ve done it.”

“I heard you spoke with my scribe after the King dismissed you. She said you went around and offered to see to my men who were wounded by the chasmfiend.”

Kholin’s blue eyes stared up at him, searching for something. Kaladin sipped from his glass, sweet orange wine.

“You can expect my wife to add those men to the bill she will send to the King’s accountants. She’s efficient like that.”

Dalinar Kholin, the Blackthorn, had a deep and friendly laugh.

“Your wife is a practical soul, then?”

“Very.” Back home, Lirin was adamant that he would not charge for his services, relying on the goodwill of the people of Hearthstone. But things were different out here in the Plains, surrounded by Highprinces and their armies and the greed of lighteyes, and Laral’s attention to details and money was what made it possible for Kaladin to do what he considered his best work. Laral’d charge the tenners a fair price and King Elhokar an exorbitant surgeon, and a slave bridgeman no money at all.

Dalinar Khloin’s bridges were manoeuvred by soldiers, everyone in the warcamps knew that. They were slow and bulky and inefficient, and left no dead behind.

Kaladin drained his glass and said nothing.

When they got back to camp, the mother of the little girl they’d seen that morning was waiting for them at the entrance of the surgery. Kaladin broke into a sprint, feeling a surge of nerves rush through him. Had something happened? Had there been an emergency while he’d been dining with the King? He felt ashamed and guilty, but the child’s mother appeared calm.

“I got it,” Laral said. “I’ll talk to her, Kal, go wash your hands. I’ll call you if you need to do anything.”

But she didn’t, and Laral returned shortly after with something in her hand.

“She wanted to make sure she paid us. She said her daughter is doing better already. She’s making you a gift, so you’ll better look very grateful when they come back for their check-in.”

“Oh,” Kaladin said, relieved and grateful all at once. “Sure. I can be grateful.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Better?”

“Less grumpy,” Laral said. Kaladin gave her a look.

“I’m not– I wasn’t _grumpy_. I just feel like I wasted the whole afternoon.”

“I think you’re looking more relaxed,” Laral said. “Look, I’m going to change, you just pack the bag.”

“Really?”

“Well, I knew you’d want to go straight away,” she said. “Can’t have you lying around doing nothing. You’ll just start to feel useless.”

They left the surgery again just as the sun was setting, Laral back in her practical clothing with her safehand gloved just like Hesina used to wear it back home, Kaladin carrying all of their bags. They walked through the narrow alleyways of Sadeas’s warcamp, down to the muddy quarters where the poor and the slaves had made their homes.

Most of what Kaladin did during the day was so they could afford to see to the downtrodden of Sadeas’s camp free of charge. The bridgemen were the worst of the lot, bearded and covered in dust, and it seemed that as soon as Kaladin got around to learning their names half of them were dead and replaced with shell-shocked newcomers. Tonight Kaladin recognised old Teft, with his grizzled hair and foul mouth, who’d come to ask Kaladin to visit the barracks and see to one of the bridgemen who’d been hit by an arrow.

“Old Gaz wanted us to leave him behind, but I told him you’d see to the lad. Arrow went right through, no pieces stuck inside, and I thought maybe you could do something,” Teft explained. “He’s barely twenty, it’s a damn shame– beggin’ your pardon, brightness,” he told Laral. “Worse than an Horneater’s behind.”

The worst thing was, Kaladin could have freed the slave bridgeman right now. His name was Dunny, he was twenty years old, and he might survive tonight but he’d be dead by the end of the month.

Bridgemen’s lives were cheap; Kaladin could have bought the freedom of three or four men just with what they’d gotten from Elhokar’s accountants today, three or four men worth about as much as a King’s ankle. And even if Kaladin could choose which four deserved freedom, and who should be left to Gaz and Lamaril, they’d just be replaced at tomorrow’s slave market. Sometimes, he fantasised idly about buying all of Teft’s crew, if he could get the money – Bridge Four, they were called, the worst and the least fortunate of the lot. Kaladin patched scrapes and arrow wounds and put ointment on the wounds, then drained out and bandaged an infection that had gotten worse. Wounded bridgemen were denied food, so Laral shared some of the fresh fruit she’d gotten at the market just that morning. Kaladin thought of all the delicacies that had been served at the King’s feast, the barely-touched plates carried out by servants, and he felt his anger rise.

Outside, on the way back, the breeze was fresh and cool against the stillness of the night. Windspren played in Laral’s hair, the fold of her clothes. A small one came to rest on Kaladin’s shoulders, tugging at his hair as it floated in the air. It played with the fold of his clothes, mindless and happy, and Kaladin felt a strange lightness come on him at the display.

The spren then followed them all the way to the surgery.

Three days later it was not Sadeas but King Elhokar himself who sent for them. Today’s envoy was a darkeyed messenger instead of a military officer, a young woman with dark hair tied back in buns who asked Kaladin if he has time to receive her before she gave him her message. Once again, he and Laral closed up the surgery and followed the messenger, on foot instead than on one of those thrice-damned horses, and once again they had to wade through scores of Kholin guards before they were allowed to set sight on the King.

Elhokar’s ankle was looking much better. It was still sore, but the swelling had gone down, and Kaladin told the King he should be able to start walking again in one day, as long as he avoided unnecessary stress on the limb.

“You know that this is not why I sent for you,” Elhokar said.

Kaladin, who’d been expecting it, nodded slowly.

“I wish to offer you a place as my personal surgeon. It’s a great honour, especially for a darkeye. You’d be very well paid and receive lodging with the court, both here and in Kholinar. You should keep all these in mind.”

“I’m sure it’s an honour,” said Kaladin slowly. “But I’m–”

“Excuse me,” Laral said. “Your Majesty, may I talk to my husband for a minute?”

The King nodded, magnanimously, and Kaladin steeled himself as he followed Laral to a more secluded corner.

“You were going to say that you’d need to think about it,” she said, as soon as they were alone. “Kal, don’t you see what an opportunity this is?”

“What, to be at the beck and call of the King?” He made sure to whisper – he wasn’t that thoughtless. “Laral, I could be doing real good in the world – we _have_ been doing real good. I don’t want to shut myself in a palace, and–”

“Yes, and think of how much more you could do. Do you think Sadeas’s scribes would dare tell you anything if you had the King’s backing? Can’t you see that?”

They were still talking when the Blackthorn approached them, clad in his unadorned uniform just as he had been the other night.

“I hear my nephew made you an offer.”

Laral curtsied, and Kaladin followed suit.

“Brightlord,” Kaladin said. Then he waited.

Dalinar Kholin, Highprince and Alethkar’s most infamous warrior, shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if he didn’t quite know how to stand. “The King is… quite mindful of his health. The reason why he doesn’t yet have a personal surgeon is that he doesn’t trust a single man with looking after him. You will not repeat this to anyone,” the Blackthorn said. “I am telling you so that you understand that you made a good impression on the King the other day, and how rare that is.”

They both nodded. Dalinar looked from Laral’s face to Kaladin’s, then his brows furrowed. “Any particular reason why you’re thinking of turning it down?”

When Kaladin had been a child, he’d fantasised about fighting alongside this man. Then he’d grown up and learned what it truly meant to be a famed battle leader in Alethkar, and all the horrible things the Blackthorn had done. And then he’d come to the Shattered Plains and seen all the horrible things that still happened in the name of Alethkar and glory, and understood what it meant that Dalinar Kholin did not use bridge crews.

He told Dalinar about Teft and Bridge Four and the slaves whose lives were worth less than the handful of spheres that had paid for Kaladin’s education. The Highprince listened, brows furrowing and face going dark.

“I’ve always thought the way Sadeas runs his bridge crews is…” He shook his head to himself. “Well, there’s little honour here. But Sadeas is a great warrior and the way he sees the world is different from that of a man whose call is to heal.”

“ _You_ are not a surgeon,” Kaladin said. “And you agree with me, don’t you?”

“That hardly matters.” Kholin shook his head again. “Take the appointment, surgeon. If you mean to change the world, you can start by gaining the ear of the King.”

And he left.

It had been over ten minutes, and the King was growing impatient. For the first time, he looked just like his official portrait, a commanding air about him as his gaze turned from Kaladin to Laral.

“So?”

“If I enter your service,” Kaladin began, slowly. “Would it still be possible for me to heal others when you don’t have need of me? The soldiers and the people of the camp, and—”

“Yes, yes,” Elhokar said. “Was that it? You’d hardly need the spheres, I can imagine, but I’m certainly not stopping you. I will send a scribe today with a contract.”

Another imperious flicker of his hand and they were dismissed, so that the King may bathe and sip from a cup of yellow wine. They walked slowly on the way back, each assorted in their thoughts, and Kaladin found himself thinking about Dunny the bridgeman and Tien as he stared at one of the bright golden streaks in Laral’s hair. She’d used to dye it when they’d been younger, when Kaladin had been away studying in Kharbranth, but stopped doing it since she’d left Hearthstone.

“Look!” Laral said, shaking him from his thoughts. She was pointing at the air right above Kaladin’s shoulder, where a single windspren floated happily.

“Where’d it come from? There’s no wind.” Kaladin turned his head to the sky. The air was still and warm, the sun covered with clouds but no hints of a Highstorm approaching.

“I think it’s the same spren that was following you the other night, Kal. Maybe it just likes you.” And then she said, “Like the King, did you see that? I think if you’d said no to his offer he would’ve been heartbroken.”

She was smiling as she spoke, light gleaming in her eyes, and Kaladin rolled his eyes good-naturedly at her teasing and bumped her shoulder as they walked.

Above their heads, the sky remained cloudy and still, no breeze or signs of rain, but the windspren followed them all the way to the surgery.


End file.
